


Maternal Instincts

by tortuosity



Series: Intertwined [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Character Study, Childhood, Childhood Trauma, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 21:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19797709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortuosity/pseuds/tortuosity
Summary: A juxtaposition of Isabela and Hawke’s childhoods and their relationships with their mothers.





	Maternal Instincts

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for child abuse, alcoholism, and implied sex between minors.

Naishe is six years old. 

Mummy says she’s going to teach her a new game. Naishe hopes it’s better than the last one, when Mummy said the only rule was to lay on the ground outside and not talk. Naishe tried very hard to win that one, laying there just like a stick, like a dead frog with her mouth scrunched up tight, until the sun went down and the bugs started to come out. But she wanted to win, she wanted to win more than anything, even if Mummy never told her what the prize would be. And then the bugs started to bite and it hurt and she was tired of playing that stupid game, anyway. So she went back inside the tent to see if she won.

Mummy was asleep. There was a man next to her. Naishe didn’t know who he was, but she was used to that when Mummy had company over.

She asked Mummy the next day if she won the game. But she didn’t, Mummy said, because she broke the rules.

“You’re off the ground and talking to me now, aren’t you? Stupid child. How hard is it to understand?” 

This new game looks like more fun. Naishe gets to play pretend, her most favorite thing in the whole world. Usually, she likes to be a mermaid princess, or a witch, or a dragon. But today she is going to be a very sick girl, Mummy says. 

So Naishe pretends to be a very sick girl. She gives herself a sad little cough, not so big that it hurts to do it, but a tiny cough, because that’s how you know someone’s sick. And she pretends her bones are made of jelly, makes her limbs all floppy like she’s seen the street dogs do sometimes. Mummy paints her face, puts crushed up purple around her eyes and red across her cheeks, and Naishe feels just like an actress, like the ones she sees on stages in the bigger towns they’ve stayed in. 

They sit on a busy corner, she and Mummy, and Naishe does her best to be sad and sick while Mummy asks strangers for coin to help her poor daughter. A lot of people walk by. Some make frowny faces at them, but most act like they’re not even there. Mummy starts to frown, too, and it makes Naishe nervous, because it’s not good when Mummy is cross. So she coughs a little harder and tries to look even more pitiful.

Eventually, some people stop and drop coins into Mummy’s hands. “Oh, sweet baby,” they say to Naishe, and she likes it, the kindness in their voices. More people come, more coins, and Naishe knows she is winning the game. But she won’t let them see her smile. She remembers how bad it felt the last time she was sick, when Mummy had to take her to the seers because she couldn’t eat, and she tries to be just like that again, weak and tired and sweaty.

When Mummy’s pockets are jingling and the streets are empty, she tells Naishe the game is over, that she’s won, that she’s proud of her, and Naishe is so happy.

\------

Marian is five years old.

She looks at Mama’s tummy and can’t believe a baby is supposed to be in there. Mama says there might be two babies in there, but Marian thinks that’s crazy. You can’t fit two babies in there. But Marian puts her hand there and feels _something_ moving and it’s a little scary. But maybe a little exciting, too.

Mama asks her how she feels about being a big sister. Marian doesn’t really know. Her best friend Sarah has a little brother named Colin. He’s three and cries a lot. Marian wouldn’t want a little brother like that. But it would be nice to have someone new to play with. There’s not a lot of kids where they live, and sometimes Marian gets lonely. Especially when Sarah gets mad at her when they play because Marian doesn’t want to be the princess in the tower, she wants to be the knight. Maybe a little brother or sister would let her be the knight. Maybe they would go into the forest and hunt for witches with her. Sarah won’t. She hates getting dirty, and Colin is still too young to go witch-hunting.

“You’ll have to protect them,” Mama says, because she’s heard all about Sarah and princesses in towers and knights. “They’ll look up to you as an example.”

Marian understands. She nods and says she’ll be good, and Mama smiles.

“I know you will. You’ve always been a good girl.”

Papa walks over and puts a hand on Mama’s shoulder. He looks happy, but sometimes Marian hears him and Mama having serious talks at night when they think she’s sleeping. She knows she shouldn’t, but she gets out of bed and sneaks by their room, on her tiptoes so they can’t hear her. They’re scared Marian will have magic like Papa, or that the babies will. Papa always keeps an eye on her, especially when she’s upset, but she doesn’t feel any different. She’s just a regular girl. She tells him so all the time. He laughs and says no matter what, she’s special to him.

It would be fun if her little brother or sister had magic, she thinks, even if she doesn’t. She knows they might have to move again if they do, because that’s what Mama and Papa talk about at night, but that’s okay. Sarah and Colin aren’t that much fun, anyway.

It’s decided. Marian will be the best big sister she can be.

\------

Naishe is ten years old.

Mother is passed out drunk again. It’s not really a surprise, not with all those empty bottles around her. Naishe doesn’t see what’s so special about it. She tried a sip once when Mother wasn’t looking and almost gagged. Like licking a cake if it was set on fire. Stupid. But adults are stupid.

She puts her hands under Mother’s shoulder and hip and lifts, grunting with the effort of it, but she manages to tip her onto her side. Grabbing a spare pillow, she stuffs it under Mother’s upper back, keeping her propped up. It’s a lesson she learned a few months ago, when Mother drank too much and vomited while she was asleep on her back. It was terrifying, the way she choked and gasped, the way her eyes rolled back in her head and her face started to turn blue. So now Naishe makes sure Mother doesn’t fall asleep on her back anymore. At least this way if she throws up, it’ll be on the floor.

Naishe’s stomach growls. Sighing, she searches around the tiny room they’ve crept into for the night, even if she knows there’s no food here. She digs through Mother’s clothes, random pouches and pockets, and can’t find a single copper. It figures. They had money yesterday. No bottles yesterday, though.

She could try ignoring it, maybe. Sometimes that works, if she can fall asleep. But this room smells like piss and rum and she’s not tired, just angry and hungry.

The sun is almost all the way down when she leaves the room, making her way toward the market. The sellers have likely offloaded all their wares for the day, but she might be able to swipe some fruit or maybe some oysters, and the rapidly encroaching darkness makes that task much easier.

There’s two kinds of stealing, she’s learned: the quiet kind and the not-quiet kind. The not-quiet kind is when you bump into someone and take their coinpurse, or yell and point to distract them, or even poke them with a knife. Naishe likes the quiet kind more, when she can sneak up and pocket something left behind, something no one is paying attention to. No one can get hurt that way, not if she’s careful and smart.

And she is careful and smart. She watches the last of the merchants packing their leftovers into wagons and saddlebags and plans her attack. Keeping to the shadows, she waits for a distraction, for a turned back, and quickly palms a few small oranges from a clay platter, slipping them into her pockets. Their seller is none the wiser, saddling up his mule for the trip home, and she can almost taste the sweet, tart fruit on her tongue. Her guts twist and clench in anticipation, and she presses her hand against her tummy, hoping the sound won’t give her away.

She should just go home, should just settle for her oranges, but she’s hungry, and there’s a pile of bread a few stalls away. The setup is right, but she’s not fast enough, and when the baker turns around and yells, she panics and falls to the ground. Tears immediately flood her eyes; she turns her head so he can't see them.

Naishe is honest, something she hasn’t been that much lately, and tells the man she hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning. She can’t seem to stop crying, and they’re real tears, not the fake ones she uses to help Mother get coins, because she knows he’s going to hurt her for what she’s done.

But he doesn’t. He crouches down beside her, puts a hand on her shoulder, even though she flinches.

“You should’ve just asked,” he says, and he sounds disappointed, but maybe a little sad, too. “Go ahead and take it. It’ll just go stale by morning, anyway.”

She remembers to say thank you, then takes her bread and her oranges to the base of a nearby palm tree, where she sits and watches the sun finally fall into the ocean. The orange peels lay at her feet, scraps of pretty-smelling trash for the gulls to pick at later. Her stomach calms, pleased with the day’s offering, but it’s still wild inside her head.

Mother talks about leaving for Llomerryn soon, taking a ferry across the little strip of water to a place Naishe hasn’t seen before. She doesn’t care. It’s just an island. Everywhere is the same. People give them money until they don’t. Then they get mad. Then she and Mother have to leave. Where will they be able to go on an island when people get mad? It’s stupid.

Her meager meal finished, she thinks about going home, but doesn’t get up. There’s no point in going back there.

\------

Marian is eleven years old. 

Her hands are covered in flour. It’s dusty and she doesn’t like how it feels that much, but she loves bread and this is what you have to do to make bread. The best part of making bread is when she gets to punch it down. Sometimes she punches it too much and then it doesn’t rise right, but Mama lets her bake it anyway and it’s still tasty. But it’s not time to punch it down yet. She has to knead it first. That part is still kind of fun, though.

Mama has been quieter lately. Marian knows she’s mad about what happened with Kattrin and the bear. She shouldn’t have taken the knife from the kitchen. She shouldn’t have jumped off her horse to try and fight the bear. But Kattrin was scared. And maybe Marian was a little scared, too, but what else could she do? She didn’t even touch the bear. She just yelled at it and waved the knife around until it ran back into the forest.

But it’s not just her worrying Mama. The whole reason they moved to this dumb little town was because of Bethany. Bethany and her stupid magic. 

No. Marian shakes her head and kneads the dough harder, until her hands start to ache. She shouldn’t blame Bethany. It’s not her fault. Bethany didn’t want to put that wild dog to sleep when it was chasing her and Ellie. She didn’t want to ruin everything. Marian doesn’t know why Bethany got magic and she didn’t, but that’s the way it is and it’s nobody’s fault. Bethany has magic, Marian has kitchen knives.

Bethany feels bad about making them move to Anwick. She’s only six, but she knows enough to realize the cause came from her hands. She cried and cried and said she never wanted to use magic again, but Papa just hugged her and said he would teach her how to use it safely. And they’ve been practicing. Marian watches them sometimes, watches them make tiny fires with their fingers, watches Bethany sprinkle snowflakes on the kitchen floor with the biggest smile on her face.

And it makes Marian feel funny, so she gets Carver and their wooden swords and they go outside to hit trees. 

“I think the dough is ready to rise, dear,” Mama says, and Marian sighs, because this is the most boring part of making bread. “Why don’t you go out to the garden? I think the carrots are about ready to come out. They would be nice with this bread, don’t you think?”

Marian doesn’t want to go pick stupid carrots. She wants to go play with Kattrin, but Kattrin’s parents said they didn’t want her “hanging around that Marian Hawke anymore.” Besides, Kattrin is thirteen and Marian is only eleven. She probably thinks Marian’s just a dumb kid.

If she can’t play with anyone else, she’d at least like to go adventuring into the forest on her own. Crestwood’s not that far away. She could get her horse and be there by the afternoon. Being outside makes her feel better. When she’s surrounded by trees and flowers and grass, she doesn’t need to think about how she doesn’t have magic, or how Papa spends more time with Bethany now than with her or Carver, or how Kattrin makes her heart feel like it’s going to beat right out of her chest.

“What’s wrong, Marian?” Mama asks, and a tiny line forms between her brows as she frowns.

Marian hates making Mama worried, so she tells her it’s nothing, she’s fine, and goes outside to get the carrots.

\------

Naishe is fourteen years old.

She tips the bottle of Llomerryn dark rum to her lips. The rum slips down her throat like sweet liquid fire, bringing a heat to her cheeks and making her head feel like cotton. Hari won’t miss it. And if she does, who cares? She can throw another vase at Naishe’s head and call her a wild dog again. It doesn’t matter. She can go fuck herself.

“Don’t hog it all to yourself, Naishe,” Naseem says, but he’s smiling, black eyes glimmering like beetles. She passes it over and he takes a swig, longer than he should because he’s trying to impress her. He coughs and grins that silly smile he has, bashful boy trying to be a man.

And maybe she’s a jaded girl trying to be a woman, because she takes the bottle back and asks if he’s sure he can handle it before she kisses him, sloppy and spicy with drink, and he’s already hard against her leg, but she’ll make him wait for it tonight, if she gives in at all. He’s not a bad boy, not really. Never pushes. He wants to be her boyfriend, but she’s not interested, not interested in settling for one when she could have more, has more.

Naseem hates that and she knows it. He hates seeing her with other boys, with other girls, with anyone else that’s not him, but he’s stopped arguing with her about it. They fight about other things, though. Stupid things. His parents don’t like her. They’re smarter than he is. 

Hari doesn’t know about him, and Naishe doesn’t feel the need to tell her. Her mother already thinks she’s sleeping with half the island, what’s one more boy? _At least make some money if you’re going to whore around_. As if she hadn’t taught Naishe to do just that.

“Where did you even get this?” Naseem asks before he takes another drink.

She shrugs, tells the truth for a change, and Naseem frowns, because he can’t imagine stealing from his own parents, but his parents aren’t at all like Hari. He looks like he wants to argue with her for a few seconds, eyes going narrow, mouth screwing up under those little wispy hairs he likes to call a mustache.

Naishe clenches her fists and goes very still, waiting for him to scold her, for him to act like he knows what’s best for her because he’s fifteen and his family loves him. But he doesn’t know shit about her or what she’s had to do in her life. And she’ll never tell him.

Naseem exhales, slow and steady, lets the tension between them slip away like heatwaves off the cobblestones, then passes the bottle back to her, trying to change the subject. She’s tired of rum, though, and tired of talking, so she kisses him again, because that’s the only way to keep his judgements from spilling out of his mouth. Maybe she won’t make him wait for it. Maybe it’s better this way. The bottle lays on the table forgotten as she sinks to her knees and unlaces his pants.

\------

Marian is fifteen years old.

She’s hit a growth spurt this summer, but apparently only her legs decided to get the memo, because she feels more gangly and awkward than she ever has before, like a clown on stilts. She hates it. She hates when Mama tells her she’s “a young lady,” because young ladies don’t swing swords around, they don’t jump fences on horseback into mud puddles. They probably don’t fancy other young ladies, either, but Marian’s not about to tell Mama about _that_ little detail. 

Her siblings don’t deal with any of this, and Marian supposes it’s because they’re only ten. But Carver never has to take dancing lessons. Carver can grunt and sweat and practice swordplay from sun up to sun down and Mama just laughs at him and says, “Oh, look at my little boy.”

And Bethany can’t _wait_ to be a young lady. “Do you know that boy Bryson who lives over by the Copeland’s farm? He’s cute, right?” She says things like that and then huffs when Marian tells her she’s not allowed to like boys yet, Maker’s breath, she’s only ten. But that’s Bethany. She loves boys and dresses and dancing, all the things Marian would rather throw herself off a cliff than deal with. 

Mama chides her, and lately it feels like a daily occurrence. “You may be a Hawke, but you’re an Amell, too. You need to learn to have a proper noble bearing.”

Marian couldn't care less about having “a proper noble bearing,” whatever that means. Who cares what’s in her blood? Her surname is Hawke, not Amell. She’s tried turning to Papa for help, but he just laughs and says he’s sorely lacking in experience being a young lady, and that maybe Marian should listen to her mother.

Sometimes she gets so fed up with it that she leaves, takes her horse and rides until he’s well-lathered, until her mind feels clearer, until she doesn’t know where she is. She likes to find a quiet spot and sit, where the grass is tall enough to tickle her shoulders, where she can look up at the stars overhead and dream. She dreams of places beyond Ferelden, because her family has dragged her all over this bloody country and she’s tired of it. Tired of flat muddy fields and winters so cold it hurts to breathe. She dreams of finding a girl to love and following those stars to somewhere else, anywhere else.

But she won’t. She’ll do as she’s told, because she’s good, she’s always been good, she’s always been responsible. She’ll do what Mama asks, even if she hates it. She’ll take care of Bethany and Carver, just like she promised before they were born. They’ve only been in Lothering for two years, but they might have to move again if they slip up, if the templars get suspicious, if Bethany decides showing some magic to that boy Bryson is a good idea. She’s only ten; she doesn’t know any better.

It’s hard enough having two apostates in the family. She shouldn’t be selfish. She shouldn’t be a burden.

So Marian rides back. She apologizes for worrying Mama and agrees to put her sword down for an afternoon to learn the box step. And Mama’s smile is brighter than any of those stars. Maybe it’s better this way.


End file.
